When the Sun Breaks Through
by TheChasm
Summary: Bill is arguing. Charlie is frightened. Percy is angry. George is broken. Ron is stressed. Ginny is miserable. Even months after the war, healing isn't easy, and the Weasley siblings still have a long way to go.
1. Prelude

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

**Warning: This story will contain self-harm and attempted suicide. Please do not read on if this concerns you.**

**A/N: I'm back! Well, not really. I'm still on hiatus, but I will pop back every now and then when I feel inspired. Like now. This brand-new multi-chapter is about the Weasley family months after the war. It will likely go from January to August 1999, narrated by our six living siblings. I'm expecting it to be about twenty chapters long, but that might change. And will it be regularly updated? Probably not, because I don't have a lot of time to write fanfiction, but I will do my best. Meanwhile, please enjoy this first chapter - a prelude, of sorts, to let you know how the siblings are faring. **

**Prelude**

Platform Nine And Three-Quarters was warm and misty with the mass of bodies crammed onto it: it was all most people could do to keep a close hold onto their children before sending them on their way. The clock was ticking towards eleven and the crowd was growing ever more deafening.

Ginny had already said her goodbyes – hugs for her father, Ron and Percy that morning before they'd left for work, a kiss for Harry and an emotional embrace for her mother. Now only George was left, and it was George that she clung to, because the worry was too much and what would she be leaving him to?

"You'll be alright?" she asked, trying desperately to see some confirmation in his eyes.

He smiled, an enchantingly charming smile that nonetheless didn't quite fool her. "I'm great," he assured her. "I'll write you twice a week – promise."

Ginny bit her lip, and her brother sighed. "Don't worry about me, Gin-kins," he said, more quietly. "I've been feeling much better since we all came home for Christmas."

He was lying. Ginny knew, and she knew that George had only just managed to keep his mask of happiness together over Christmas, and she knew that somehow nobody else had noticed. She also knew that he was _begging _her to keep pretending just for a little while longer, and so she reached up to kiss his cheek and smiled.

"I'd better go," she said. "Love you."

"Love you too, little sister," he answered lightly, and he looked better. He really did.

Ginny hugged him one last time and then hurried for the train, jumping inside the doors just as the whistle blew. The train began to slide out of the station and she waved to her brother for as long as she could see him, until at last he faded from view.

The train chugged northwards, carrying Ginny to Hogwarts and friends and a place where she could forget, for a while. George Apparated back to Diagon Alley, where he spent his days smiling for strangers and cried himself to sleep at night.

-W-

"So, Percy," said Minister Shacklebolt, "how would you feel about a little extra responsibility?"

Percy pushed his glasses up his nose and looked up. "I – I'd be honoured, Minister," he said uncertainly, "but what would it entail? Because I can't accept any travelling jobs – I need to spend more time with my family—"

"Rest assured," said Kingsley, "this will not take you out of the country. It's just a bit of paperwork."

"Paperwork," Percy repeated. "I can do paperwork." It was about one of the only things he _could_ do, he added rather bitterly to himself, but the Minister didn't need to know that.

A single sheet of parchment landed on top of his desk. "This is a list of the convicted Death Eaters in Azkaban," the Minister explained. "Of course, they're kept under the highest possible security, but Magical Law Enforcement has decided to stake out their families – both so that we can make some empty threats against them and so that the Aurors can find any collaborators they missed earlier.

"That's where you come in: trawling through Ministry records to find what families these people have. It'll be dull, I'm afraid, but the Aurors are stretched rather too thin at the moment for it."

"Don't worry, Minister," Percy said quietly, staring at the list. "I won't let you down." His attention was hardly on his superior any more, and for a good reason. The Death Eaters had been listed alphabetically by first name. And very near the top was Augustus Rookwood.

-W-

"Charlie?"

Charlie jerked out of his doze to see his older brother's head in his fireplace, watching him intently. "Bill," he said reluctantly.

Bill arched an eyebrow at his tone. "Have somewhere to be, do you?"

"Have something to tell me, do you?" Charlie retorted. He jumped to his feet and glanced out of the window. It was nearing dusk, and a Chinese Fireball's plume of flames shone brilliantly against the dark blue sky.

"Only that—"

"Only that everyone misses me, especially Mum, and it would be nice if I could come home for a while and spend some time catching up," Charlie recited. "Did I get it word for word, or not quite?"

"This isn't a joke," Bill said angrily. "Don't you care about _anyone_ anymore?"

"Stop with the guilt trip, Bill. I've only just been home for Christmas. I'm not coming back."

"Why not?" Bill demanded.

Charlie gaped at him. "What?"

"You heard me." When Charlie said nothing, his brother added, "That was a trick question. I know why."

"Why'd you ask it, then?"

Bill ignored this. "I watched you over Christmas," he said quietly. "You never looked at George. Not once."

Charlie swallowed. As usual, Bill had practically read his mind, because George was the reason why he couldn't even consider going back to the Burrow: George with his bright brown eyes and mischievous smile and brilliant laugh. Fred's eyes and smile and laugh, too.

Bill's blue eyes were ice-cold. "Coward," he said softly, before withdrawing his head from the flames.

-W-

"Ron?" Hermione said tentatively. "Do – do you want to go out for dinner tonight? My Arithmancy course load has lightened up a bit and I thought maybe if you had some time—"

"I don't," Ron said heavily. "Sorry, Hermione. They want us in from nine till twelve tonight, practising Stealth in night conditions."

"Nine till twelve?" she repeated indignantly, putting her armload of books down on a table. "This is harassment! They can't ask for you outside normal working hours!"

"Nothing's harassment when you're an Auror," Ron replied. "In a few months they'll be testing our reactions under Cruciatus and Imperius."

Hermione shivered. "That's just _wrong_," she said.

Ron shrugged. "It's training."

"Well," she said, her smile determined but brittle, "I'd better get back home. Mum and Dad will be worrying. See you around, Ron."

Before he could reply she'd gone, Apparating away from his flat and back to her parents' home. Ron stared after her. _See you around?_ She really was upset. He turned dejectedly back into the hallway, wondering if there was anything Auror training wouldn't take away from him.

-W-

Molly Weasley paused in her washing up and gazed out of the window at her children milling around outside. Bill was noticeably ignoring his wife, instead standing with Percy in the corner of the garden. Molly had noticed that Bill and Fleur had barely said a word to each other during the ritual Sunday lunch, and wondered not for the first time if their marriage was going through a rocky time.

Charlie wasn't there, of course: he was avoiding England, avoiding his family, and Molly quickly moved on before the pain in her heart became too pronounced.

Percy was angry. Not with Bill, not with any of them, but in his eyes and posture there simmered a subdued rage. He was angry at the world for what had happened and it was the kind of anger that needed an outlet. Somehow, Molly feared more for him now than she had for all the long years he had been away.

Fred—

George _seemed_ happy. He laughed and joked as he had at Christmas, and his smile seemed easy and natural. But Molly wasn't sure. It was... too soon. Either he was remarkably strong, or he was pretending. He had always been a good liar.

Ron was talking with Hermione. As Molly watched, he laughed and raised his glass to her, but his smile was rather strained. He was under too much pressure, harried by the fast pace of Auror training and unable to find the time to grieve, and to heal. Hermione, Molly knew, was as patient as a girl could be, but sooner or later she too would complain about the Saturday nights Ron spent frantically studying and the constant hours training at the Ministry.

Ginny, being of age, was allowed to leave school on weekends, and so she was chatting with Harry in the middle of the chaos. She seemed at ease, but Molly had never before seen her fidget and now she was fiddling with a strand of hair, plaiting it and then tugging it loose again. Her smile dropped for a moment and Molly saw how her mouth slipped into a downwards curve as if it were a natural position. Ginny was unhappy – she worried about George and she missed Fred more than most.

Six children, Molly thought. Six living children and one dead and nothing she could do for any of them. They were stressed or sad or utterly broken, all of them, and their mother could not fix this pain. She could only watch and wait.

Because, Molly knew, one of them would snap soon. It was just a question of who.

**I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, and please do review! The next chapter will be called ****_Colourless_**** and follows George through a typical day at work.**

**~Butterfly**


	2. Colourless

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

**Warning: This chapter contains self-harm. Skip the last few paragraphs if this makes you uncomfortable.**

**A/N: Here's the next chapter! I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it too!**

**Colourless**

George woke to the faintest of sunlight streaming in through his window, tugging him from sleep. He was never sure whether he was glad to wake or not. Every night he dreamed of Fred, cold and dead in the Great Hall; every day he had to get through the day without him. It was hard to say which was worse.

He sat up, trying to gather his thoughts. "Get ready for the day," said the list he usually left by the side of his bed, prompting him when he forgot what came next. Then was "Eat breakfast" and after that "Open the shop". Those were simple enough.

"Get ready for the day," he said to himself, making his way towards the bathroom. That meant brushing his teeth – not looking at the mirror – and showering and dressing. It wasn't hard. Really.

"Eat breakfast," he read once that was done. He glanced towards the tiny kitchen, the stove where they'd earnestly attempted (and failed) to cook, and the dining table where they'd sat together and laughed over nothings just because they were _happy_. The thought of eating made him sick to the stomach. It couldn't do any harm to skip breakfast for one day, could it?

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten breakfast, actually, but he was sure it didn't matter.

_It's a good idea. Keep at it._

Open the shop. That meant going downstairs, smiling at Verity when she said, "Good morning, Mr Weasley, and how are you today?" and giving her some sort of appropriate response. He'd flip the sign on the door and joke around with the shop's steady flow of customers.

He took a deep breath and then walked down the stairs at the back of the building, opening the door to the shop and slipping back into the real world. Verity was just entering by the front door. She hung up her coat on a peg and smiled when she saw him. "Good morning, Mr Weasley, and how are you today?"

"I'm good, thanks, Verity," George responded automatically. He walked over to the door, flipped the sign and leaned against the wall for a moment, relishing the last few moments in relative privacy. He'd loved the shop before. Now it was just hard work and painful memories.

The next item on his list was "Do inventory". That meant retreating to the back of the shop, where they kept Defence products and paperwork and a new shipment of potions ingredients. Verity was perfectly capable of keeping the shop going in the front; he could allow himself a little more time hiding in solitude.

Beetle eyes. Lizard skin. Doxy blood, which they'd found no earthly use for until Fred had thought to incorporate it into some of the Skiving Snackboxes.

Suddenly the bottle seemed very heavy and George set it down on the little desk, fighting the urge to bury his head in his arms. That counted as showing weakness, breaking, and breaking was forbidden.

"You know one of the worst things?" Ginny had said to him a while back. "I keep on forgetting. What his laugh sounded like and the colour of his eyes. The ways you two were different."

George hadn't forgotten, couldn't. He remembered Fred's infectious laugh and he knew that his eyes were darker than his brother's, softer and older now. Fred's eyes had been uncommonly bright, every emotion visible in them, and George could see them every time he closed his own.

He remembered the way Fred's hair used to fall across his forehead when it had grown too long and the sound of his footsteps when he was angry. He remembered his twin's impossibly wide smile, the warmth of his arms and the way he curled up tightly when he slept. He remembered, too, the dark nights when Fred had dreamed of nameless terrors and crept to George for comfort, shivering with fear that his twin had thought to be irrational. It hadn't been.

George remembered Fred's flair for Charms, how he seemed to instinctively know the way spells pieced themselves together. He remembered Fred's wand, identical to his own and six feet under like its owner.

In short, he remembered too much and the memories were _everywhere_.

_Listen to the plan. I'm right. It's the best way._

He shook himself, making a note of the Doxy blood and then continuing with the methodical, mind-numbing work. When he had finished the inventory, the list told him it was time to "Man the shop" for a while, during Verity's lunch break.

This was the hardest part of the day – seeing the pity in the eyes of strangers as they handed him their money and he bagged up their goods. Sometimes he wondered if they came to the shop because they liked his products, or if they thought they were doing their good turn for the day by supporting the _poor_, _grieving_ twin-without-a-twin.

George wasn't angry, not really. It wasn't their fault that they'd come out of the war unscathed.

He could tell it would be a difficult day, because his eyes were pricking and his throat seemed to be permanently tight. It was so hard, every day, trying to be strong for his family and keeping his composure throughout every painful meeting with people from his past. But enough of that. He had no time for self-pity.

No well-meaning friends had dropped by today, thankfully, and when Verity came back to the shop George gladly gave his place at the counter to her and fled upstairs to the flat. Mistake: he saw Fred leaning against every doorway, sitting in every chair, and by the time he reached the kitchen George was shaking all over. He pulled the list out of his pocket to remind himself; the next thing to do was "Eat lunch". With the memories everywhere, it seemed as impossible a task as bringing Fred back to life.

He wandered over to the cupboard, pulled out an orange that had been lying abandoned there for a few days. It looked fresh enough, but it probably wasn't healthy to be eating it. It might give him food poisoning, after all.

_Well done, George. Who needs lunch, anyway? The less you eat, the better the plan will work. Perhaps you can go and buy the ingredients tomorrow afternoon. Monkshood. Hellebore. You know the list._

He knew the list. He'd written it a few days before in a moment of weakness, before locking it ashamedly in a drawer in his cupboard. He could remember every word of it, though. It was not the sort of list one forgot.

"I know the list," he repeated out loud. "Yes. I'll do that. Who needs lunch, anyway?"

Next he had to "Stay in the shop" for a while – not talking to people, necessarily, but being there. He could answer Verity's questions and wander through the aisles, avoiding customers' gases and righting products that had fallen over. It was dull work, but it passed the time.

George made his way back downstairs, glancing around warily as he entered from the back again. The shop was so crowded that there was barely space to breathe and he instinctively scanned it, looking for a head of red hair. He had no desire to see his family today.

Letting out a breath of relief when nobody he knew seemed to be in sight, George let himself sink into obscurity as the crowd swallowed him. He could see young women exclaiming over love potions and small boys gaping at prank items, all of them packaged in pinks and oranges and eye-catching yellow. Colourless, every last one.

The world suddenly shifted into grey and George looked around in a panic before stopping short. Standing a few metres away was Fred, clear as yesterday with his red hair and brown eyes. He was smiling, but every time George took a step towards him he only seemed further away.

By the time he'd reached the end of the aisle, George could no longer see his twin, and it took every scrap of determination he had to keep himself from sitting down on the floor and sobbing. "It was a hallucination," he breathed. "Not real."

_You can make it real. You know that._

The next item on his list was "Invent", so he retreated to the lab tucked away in a corner of the shop and looked around bleakly. He had recently discovered a sheaf of notes on Colour Charms that Fred had written, and these past few days he had been perusing them carefully in the hope of finding where his Invisibility Potion was going wrong. They were useful, but —

He was deep into the notes when he heard the door creak open and looked up to see his mother walk into the lab. Inwardly George sighed. He couldn't do this, didn't have the strength to pretend any longer.

_Soon you won't have to._

Outwardly he smiled. "Hello, Mum. Sorry I wasn't out in the shop, but I really need to finish reading these."

His mother moved closer and ran a gentle hand through his hair. "No worries, dear. I don't have much to do with none of you at home, so I thought I might drop by for a visit and see how you were getting on."

"Really well," George lied. "I've been feeling much more cheerful since Christmas."

"That's good to hear, dear. You're sleeping well?"

No, I have nightmares every night and I'm scared to close my eyes but I'm so tired I can't stay awake, George thought. "Yes, Mum."

"Eating regularly?"

George thought of the untouched food in his cupboard and of the plates and cutlery gathering dust on the shelves. "Yes, Mum. Three meals a day."

She smiled and leaned forward to hug him. "Well, then. I'd best leave you to your work. You're coming for lunch on Sunday?"

George had no idea which day of the week it was – he should check that. "Of course."

He kissed his mother on the cheek and showed her out of the shop before returning to the lab and hiding his face in his hands. How much longer could he go on like this?

_Not much longer. But you don't want to, do you?_

George shivered and returned his attention to the notes, but his twin's familiar scrawl was blurring beneath tears. He took a long, shaky breath. Crying was weakness, and he couldn't show weakness.

Once his hour of inventing time was over, George's list told him to "Close the shop". He made his way out into the main shop to see that Verity had shooed most of the customers away and was putting on her coat. "Oh, Mr Weasley," she said brightly. "I was just closing up."

"Thanks, Verity," George said gratefully. "I'll finish up round here; you go on home."

She smiled at him, stepped out into the swiftly emptying street and Disapparated. George flipped the sign on the door once more, turned off the lights and, finally, went back upstairs to the flat and the loneliness.

The next item on his list was "Eat supper". George was at last feeling hungry, so he took some soup out of the cupboard and found a pan to heat it in.

_Don't. Don't. The plan will work better if you don't eat, you know that._

George set the pan down uncertainly.

_And do you think you deserve it, anyway? People who kill their twins shouldn't eat – it's just wrong._

George shivered and backed away. Maybe he wouldn't eat after all.

Next on his list was "Go to bed", but although the sky was dark it was still ridiculously early. That left him stranded, without a set list of things to adhere to. Before, he and Fred would have sat down together for a bit, relishing the few short hours when they could just talk without any demands on their time. George remembered the way Fred would lean against him or put an arm around his shoulders and he'd close his eyes, feeling warm and complete. The world had been colourful then. Now it was grey and dull.

He was crying, quietly but without pause. Fred was gone, _gone_, and George missed him so much, too much. "Come back," he whispered. "Please."

Nothing happened.

George scrubbed at his eyes and wandered over to the tiny bathroom to wash his face. When he glanced up he somehow caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, the reflection he had avoided seeing for many months now, and something snapped.

He'd known that his magic was spiralling out of control, but he wasn't expecting the flash of purple light nor the sudden crash of tinkling glass. He screamed, then, because he was going mad and he knew it, this was the proof, and when his vision cleared he found himself kneeling on the floor with shards of what had been a mirror scattered all around him.

He reached for one lying near him, flinching at the two brown eyes that stared back at him from the glass. No matter that he was older and sadder, because those were Fred's eyes still.

_Do it. You know you want to. It will help._

He glanced at his bare forearm and then at the menacing sharpness of the broken glass, hesitating a little.

_Do it!_

Very carefully and slowly, George drew the glass down the length of his arm, and the blood was very bright against his skin.

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed that, and please review! Look out for the next chapter, in which Ginny receives an interesting letter, and we see how Bill has been faring. (Something else will happen too, but I can't tell you _everything_, can I?)**

**~Butterfly**


	3. The Price

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**

**A/N: Here's the next chapter!**

**The Price**

The sun was streaming through the Great Hall's windows, Hermione was staying at Hogwarts for the week to study and the Gryffindor Quidditch team was well on its way to winning the Cup. Ginny felt almost like a normal teenager, with no worries and no griefs, and nothing bigger to complain about than the fact that she hadn't seen her boyfriend for _weeks_.

"Honestly," she said to Hermione, buttering her toast, "long-distance relationships are _so_ hard to carry on with. You know I love Harry, and I'm glad he's doing what he wants to, but sometimes I wish he'd chosen to finish school. You're so lucky, you see Ron all the time!"

"You're allowed out of school whenever you choose, you're of age now," Hermione pointed out sensibly as she reached for the tumbler of pumpkin juice.

"I know, but there's so many exams," Ginny sighed, throwing her arms out melodramatically. "I spend my weekends studying, not partying."

"So does your brother," Hermione laughed. "I don't see much of him either."

"I'm never going to be an Auror," Ginny declared. "The whole point of finishing school is that you don't have to study anymore."

"What will you do, then?" Hermione asked.

Ginny smiled. She'd thought of it late last night and the idea was consuming her. "I want to play Quidditch," she said, a little breathlessly. "It's – something I really know I can do, and I love flying, Hermione. I was thinking of maybe writing to Gwenog Jones, seeing if I could start training with the Harpies once I've finished school..."

"That's a brilliant idea!" Hermione beamed. "I think—"

But Ginny didn't hear any more; the post had arrived and the Great Hall was suddenly thick with flurries of owls. Three landed in front of her: she had letters from Harry, her mother and George.

Hermione had stopped talking, too, pouring eagerly over a missive from Ron. Ginny slit open the envelope that bore Harry's script and could not stop her grin. He apologised for not seeing her lately, told her that he had a week off training and suggested that she come down to London for the weekend. Suddenly deciding that Monday's Charms test wasn't quite as important as she'd thought, Ginny turned to Hermione to see a matching smile.

"Ron's got next week off!" she said excitedly. "It's Friday, isn't it? Why don't we go down to meet up with them tonight and stay the weekend?"

"That's just what Harry said," Ginny said. "We can go to Sunday lunch at the Burrow, too..." Quickly she opened her mother's letter, which confirmed that, as usual, she was welcome for lunch on Sunday and that she must tell Hermione to come too. It was a rather quick, rushed letter, but her mother had been busy. Ginny didn't mind, really.

George's letter felt equally light, but Ginny couldn't help feeling that even so, one letter from him was worth ten from Percy or Charlie. He had always been her favourite brother, and she had long ago given up on denying it to herself. Was it bad to have favourites? Was it wrong to have felt the tiniest pang of relief when she had seen Fred lying scant metres from where she sat now, because _it hadn't been George_?

Her eyes prickled for a moment, but she blinked the tears away and opened her letter.

_Dear Gin-kins,_ it read,

_How are you? I miss you – it's lonely over here. The shop is doing well, though. Everyone feels more like laughing now that the war's over._

_It was great to see you at Christmas, and I'm glad you're doing well in school (I mean having fun, because who cares about studying?) Remember to smile, and remember I love you. I'm sorry I can't see you more often, little sister._

_Love,_

_George_

Ginny stared at the letter, her throat tightening with unease. There was something off about it. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

The bell rang. Hermione reached out and shook her shoulder. "Ginny?" she prompted. "Come on, it's Transfiguration now."

Ginny nodded and stuffed the three letters into her bag. She was probably imagining things. George's letter was cheerful enough, and usually it would have brought a smile to her face. But... something was missing.

She shook herself and hurried after Hermione to class.

Hermione was in a buoyantly happy mood all day, and while Ginny tried to feel excited about the coming weekend she couldn't. Her brother's letter had frightened her and she was struggling to know why.

"I'm done," Hermione announced at lunchtime. "I think I'll to go up to Gryffindor Tower and pack; that way I can leave as soon as lessons are over. Are you coming?"

"No, I'm still hungry," said Ginny. "I'll see you in Defence."

Hermione nodded and hurried off. She really was distracted today: normally, she would have been hyper-aware of the knot of irrational fear in Ginny's stomach.

Ginny pulled George's letter out of her bag and re-read it, hoping the niggling feeling of worry would disappear. It only increased. This was stupid; she knew George was unhappy, wouldn't expect him to be anything else. But he had been feeling better – she was sure of it.

She deliberately chose seats away from Hermione in the afternoon's classes, which she spent staring at the letter under her desk. By the time lessons were over at four o'clock she was still no closer to finding out what was wrong.

In the stampede to get out of classrooms Ginny found herself being swept away from Hermione. Hermione caught her eye. "Are you coming?" she called.

"I need to pack!" Ginny was struggling to avoid being carried down the corridor. "Meet me at Ron's!"

Hermione nodded. The next moment Ginny lost sight of her entirely as the crowd seemed to close over her head.

Sometimes, Ginny really hated being short.

She managed to make her way back to the common room, which was thankfully quiet. Ginny swallowed. She had never loved Hogwarts the way so many did: it had been tainted for her enough in her nightmarish first year and then again after the battle. The common room, red like the messages she'd painted on the walls and gold like the sunlight on her dead brother's face, could never be a place to relax for her.

But for now she sank down onto one of the hateful sofas and took out her letter one more time. Just one more time, and then she would leave the puzzle alone. She would see George the day after tomorrow; everything would be fine. She would read it just one more time.

Perhaps it was the morbid turn her thoughts had taken, but as Ginny's eyes scanned the now-familiar lines something clicked. Why did the letter feel so much like a goodbye?

_I'm sorry I can't see you more often, little sister, _George had written. What else was he apologising for?

Sudden, sharp fear rose inside Ginny and she was hurtling through the school's corridors before she even realised she was on her feet. She couldn't wait two days to see George. She wasn't sure she could even wait two minutes.

It was a long walk from Gryffindor Tower down to the school gates, the boundary of the Anti-Apparition wards. Ginny had never run the distance so quickly, but then her need to leave had never been so urgent. Hermione was out of sight, likely already sitting down to talk with Ron, and Ginny had never strained so hard to see that mane of bushy brown hair.

Her own hair was in her face and eyes and she was gasping for breath, but she couldn't stop, couldn't stop. How many hours had she wasted already?

Then she had reached the gates and her body twisted as she Apparated. The familiar squeezing sensation felt like a boa constrictor of panic, tightening around her throat. Her feet touched solid ground and she looked around wildly, disorientated, before realising that she was standing outside her brother's shop in Diagon Alley.

Right – there was no time to waste. She barged through the open door, startling a few late shoppers as she pushed past them. George wasn't at the counter, or in any of the aisles, or in the inventing lab at the back. That was perfectly normal. He often asked Verity to close up the shop while he went upstairs, so that was where he must be.

Ginny opened the door that led to the flight of stairs and dashed up them, losing her head and beginning to call out. "George! George, where are you?"

In all probability George was fine. He was probably reading on the sofa or starting to cook himself an early supper. She had no need to worry.

But why didn't he answer her?

"George!" Ginny called. "GEORGE!"

He wasn't in the little sitting room or smaller kitchen. He did not answer as she screamed his name and her voice echoed in the thick, dark silence. It was the sort of silence she associated with death.

Finally Ginny thought to open the door to the single bedroom. There was a faint light coming from inside, which she saw was coming from George's wand lying on the floor next to his bed. And on the bed was George himself, his face pale and peaceful, his eyes closed. Ginny noticed these details only in passing, though, because there was a little bottle clenched in his hand and although she had dropped Potions after her O.W.L.s, she still recognised the smell of poison.

She screamed, then, but there was just enough sense left in her to shout "_Accio_ – _accio_ bezoar!"

Harry's voice was in her head: _He just started choking and I thought – it had to be poison in the mead, his lips were turning blue, and there was a bezoar in Slughorn's cupboard and I didn't have anything to lose, did I? And it worked – he started breathing, thank Merlin—_

How long ago had George taken the poison? Was he even still alive? And what, Ginny thought, prising his jaws open so that she could push the bezoar in, did she have to lose?

She sobbed as George swallowed and took a shuddering breath, but his eyes remained closed and his skin was growing colder by the second.

Hermione, Ginny thought. Hermione was in London too. Hermione would know what to do.

She did not remember stumbling to the fireplace in the sitting room, but she was on her knees and her hand was full of Floo powder. She gasped out Ron's address and stuck her head into the flames, and when her vision cleared she saw Ron and Harry and Hermione, sitting side by side on the rug and laughing.

Harry caught sight of her first. "Ginny!" he beamed. "Where are you? Are you coming over?"

Ginny shook her head. "I'm in George's flat," she said. "Please, please, please, you have to come—"

"George's flat?" Ron's eyes widened, and Ginny remembered that she was not the only one to worry.

"Just come," she whispered through numb and shaking lips. "Please."

All she recalled about the next few minutes were Harry's arm around her shoulders and Ron's cry of alarm when he saw George; when she came to herself she was sitting next to Harry on a hard bench while Ron and Hermione, holding George between them, spoke rapidly to strangers in white robes. St Mungo's.

"It's alright," Harry whispered. "It's alright. They can save him."

Ginny took a deep breath and looked down. Clenched in her hands was a scrap of parchment, which was funny, because she couldn't remember picking it up. Carefully, she pulled out the wrinkles and creases and examined it. It was covered with George's handwriting, neat at first but growing steadily shakier and messier as Ginny's eyes travelled down the page. And what it said? As Ginny scanned it, she saw names, apologies, words of love, and she knew what the parchment was. A suicide note.

_Ginny – I love you, and I'm sorry. Stay strong._

Stay strong, he'd written. But he hadn't. He'd snapped. Ginny's eyes blurred suddenly. "Merlin," she breathed. "What's happening?"

Harry only squeezed her shoulders tighter.

Ron and Hermione walked back to them: Hermione's face was pale and Ron's hands were shaking. "He'll be okay," he said. "They took him into the emergency room. You did the right thing with that bezoar, Gin. But what _happened?"_

Ginny's throat suddenly tightened. Without a word she held out the note to Ron, who took it and scanned it. His eyes widened. "Suicide?" he whispered.

"Suicide," Ginny mumbled.

"Oh Merlin," Ron said. He sat down heavily and shook his head. "Oh, _Merlin_."

Hermione's eyes were sympathetic. "We need to call your family," she said. "They'll want to know if George is in hospital. Harry, can you do that? I'll go and see if I can get you both something for the shock."

Ginny wanted to protest when Harry's arm left her shoulders, but the words seemed to have frozen on her tongue. All except one: suicide. Suicide. Suicide. George had tried to kill himself.

She hid her face in Ron's shoulder and soon her tears had caused a dark patch on his shirt. He was crying too, his face buried in her hair and his breath coming in choking sobs. "What're we going to do?" he asked.

"We have to help him," Ginny murmured. "We—"

At that moment Hermione returned. "Harry's down at the fireplaces, he'll be back once he's called everyone," she said. "Here; drink these."

Ginny took one of the vials she held out and downed the contents in a gulp. The potion tasted fresh and slightly sweet, and as she licked the last few drops from the rim she felt the fog of hysteria lifting from her mind.

Hermione sat down next to Ron, who was scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve. "These people are so rude," she said, casting a glare at the closed door behind which George lay unconscious and hardly breathing. "You'd think I was asking for the Philosopher's Stone, not medicine in a hospital!"

Ginny looked around. She saw now that they were sitting in a long grey corridor with doors opening off it at intervals. It was cold and rather forbidding, and she had to agree with Hermione's assessment of the hospital as she ranted on. Before, St Mungo's had been the best of the best. Now, with so many long-term injuries from the war, it was overworked and understaffed.

"Mr and Miss Weasley?" One of the Healers from earlier had stepped out into the corridor again. She did not even glance at Hermione, but favoured the other two with a cold smile. "Your brother's condition is now happily stable and we have removed the poison from his system. You will be able to take him home within a few hours."

"Take him home?" Ginny stared at her. "No, you don't understand – he – he drank that poison himself, he needs help—"

"No, Miss Weasley, I believe it's you who doesn't understand," the woman said smoothly. "We won't be able to help him here. We have more pressing cases than... well, what exactly _is_ your brother's trouble?"

Ginny was quickly becoming more furious than she had ever been before, but somehow she pasted a smile onto her face and managed to keep control. "He's not well," she said unevenly. "He – he's been so sad for ages, ever since Fred died, and—"

"He's sad," the woman repeated, disdain leaching into every word. "Well, I'm sorry to tell you that I don't think this hospital can treat _sadness_. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to attend to – patients who are actually ill. Good night." And she swept off down the corridor, leaving the three of them staring open-mouthed after her.

Hermione reached across Ron to grasp Ginny's wrist firmly, probably sensing how close she was to leaping to her feet and giving the Healer a piece of her mind.

Ron turned to Ginny bleakly. "What're we going to do?" he asked again, and this time, Ginny couldn't answer.

-W-

Bill was sitting by the fireplace with Fleur, making polite and pointless conversation, when Harry's head appeared in the flames.

"Harry!" he exclaimed, relieved beyond measure to have someone else to focus on. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Harry grimaced. "I'm not sure how much of a pleasure this is, Bill," he said quietly. "Um – I have bad news."

"Bad news?" Fleur echoed. "For who?"

"For Bill," Harry said and Bill felt his heart flop down into his stomach. "Bill, I... I'm calling from St Mungo's."

If possible, Bill's heart became even heavier. "Who?" he breathed. "Who's there?"

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "It's George," he said finally. "He's going to be alright, but – well, he was brought in for drinking poison."

Bill was sitting by the fire, but he suddenly felt very cold. "Drinking – poison?" he repeated slowly. "On purpose?"

"He left a note," Harry told him quietly. "They've got the poison all out of his system, but..."

But he tried to kill himself, Bill wanted to say, but his tongue didn't seem to be working. Not his little brother. Not again.

Harry was speaking rapidly now. "Ron and Ginny are here too," he said. "I've told your mum and dad – they're on their way – so now I just need to let Percy and Charlie know."

Bill managed to coax his tongue into movement. "It'd be great if you could call Percy," he said. "Leave Charlie to me."

Harry nodded, looking stressed and pale. "Right. See you soon, Bill."

His head vanished from the fire. Bill let out a long breath and stared at the floor. "We tried..." he said hoarsely. "We tried so hard..."

But that was a lie. They hadn't tried to take care of George, not at all. They'd let him live in that lonely flat by himself for months, they'd accepted his refusals of help in the shop and when he laughed, they had _believed_ he was getting better. They had wanted to believe it, so badly.

Fleur wrapped her arms around him. "Go," she murmured into his ear. "Go to 'im."

Bill couldn't thank her, couldn't kiss her goodbye. Before he knew it he was stumbling to his feet, blurting out Charlie's address and vanishing into the fire.

It was nighttime in Romania, not the uncertain evening Bill had left England in, and the sky was pitch-black through his brother's windows. Brushing ashes off his robes, Bill looked around. Charlie's sitting-room was empty, but the broomstick lying next to an open pot of polish told him that someone would be returning fairly soon. Fairly soon, someone did.

Charlie walked through the open door before stopping short. His mouth fell open. "What are you doing here?"

All Bill's shock and terror were beginning to coalesce into a slow, burning rage. "Evening, Charlie," he said, his voice deceptively calm.

Charlie's eyes hardened. "I know what you're going to say. The answer's no."

"One more chance, Charlie," Bill said. He thought he might actually be shaking – from anger or fear, he couldn't tell. "Come home. Please."

"I've said no already," Charlie said stubbornly.

Bill laughed harshly. "Well, you don't have much choice, do you?"

Charlie stared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I gave you a chance," Bill told him. "You didn't take it. But you have to come back to England, Charlie. Even you can't stay away now."

Charlie only gaped at him.

"George is in St Mungo's," Bill said. He couldn't quite stop the rush of vicious satisfaction Charlie's shocked face gave him. "He's just tried to kill himself. Are you coming, or what?"

With that he took a pinch of Floo Powder, shouted "St Mungo's!" and stepped into the flames. Just before he vanished he saw Charlie reaching to do the same.

Bill would sigh if he could. Trying to persuade his brother to come home, and stay home, had been his main objective for months now. He should have been glad that he had made some progress at last.

But the price had been too great.

**A/N: I'm not too sure about the way this chapter is written, in all honesty. It doesn't feel fluent enough. Still, I hope it had enough drama for you! Please do review and let me know what you thought. Also, look out for Chapter 4, in which George makes an interesting revelation, Ron gets angry and Percy realises something rather disturbing.**

**~Butterfly**


	4. His Voice

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

**His Voice**

Ron hated the smell of the hospital. Logically he knew that all it smelled of was potions and clean, hygienic sheets, but right now he felt like he was inhaling death. People had died in this building – not heroically, or beautifully, but just with a sad little last gasp and a final flutter of the eyelids. That had almost been George, he thought.

"Please," he was saying to the kindly Healer he'd met with after demanding to speak to someone. "I _know_ my brother. If – if he tries something once and fails, he'll just try again. He needs help. He's in danger."

The lady had round cheeks and a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry, sir," she said pleasantly. "We simply don't have the facilities necessary to deal with this sort of thing. When the mind is damaged—"

"Damaged?" Ron stared at her. "What – George's mind isn't damaged! He isn't insane, just..." He trailed off, lost for words. George was unhappy. Heartbroken. Self-destructive. But he wasn't _mad_. Neville's parents were mad. Bellatrix Lestrange had been mad. Not George.

The witch smiled again. "Yes, as I was saying, we can give him a permanent place on the Janus Thickey Ward if you're concerned with security issues?"

It took a moment for Ron to process the words, and when he did he could only gape. She wanted to lock George up. Permanently. He would get no help, no chance to recover. He would never feel fresh air again. It would, Ron thought, be more humane to let him kill himself.

"N-no," he said shakily. "No, I can't accept that. Have you – have you never had suicide cases before? Surely there's something you can do. There must be others, enough people have lost someone in the war, George can't be the only one..."

The Healer shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. There's nothing we can do."

Bile rose in Ron's throat, accompanied by a spike of anger. "And what happens if he dies?" he asked. "What happens if you do nothing and he kills himself?" His voice was growing louder. "You know who I am, don't you? Ron Weasley? Harry Potter's best friend? I'm quite well-known around Britain at the moment. And if you do this, if you refuse to help my brother and he dies, I will go to the press and I will tell them about the care this hospital provides." The woman's face was growing pale. Ron squinted at the name badge pinned to her chest. "I might just mention you, Healer Shirley, too. I wonder how long it will take you to lose your job after that."

She stared at him. "You can have a room," she said, biting out every word. She was no longer affecting politeness, Ron noticed. "A secure room – very difficult to escape from, especially if your brother's wand is confiscated. We can also provide some basic potions. Dreamless Sleep, Calming Draughts, Cheering Potions. It will be your responsibility to administer them as required and to organise a suicide watch if you wish to do so. We give you the facilities. Nothing else."

It was a bad deal. It was an awful deal, and the enormity of the task facing them was threatening to overwhelm Ron. But it was better than nothing, and so he nodded and left.

-W-

Soon after a pair of grim-faced Healers had Levitated George onto a stretcher and taken him away, his family found themselves huddled in a box-sized hospital room with white walls and white sheets and a white table. There were no windows. George lay unconscious on the bed. Ron's Healer – not Ron's Healer, of course, but Ginny couldn't help thinking of her as such – was tightly explaining the pathetic help the hospital would be giving them. An assistant filled a cabinet with potions and then left along with the Healer.

Now Ginny leaned against the wall, trying to give herself room to breathe. Harry and Hermione had decided to wait outside the door and she was uncomfortably squashed between Percy and Bill. Ginny's mother was crying. Percy was fidgeting. Charlie stared blankly into space. They were all just waiting for George to wake, now.

Bill squeezed her shoulder. _Are you alright?_ he mouthed. Ginny wasn't, but she nodded anyway.

From her mother, who was sitting on the chair next to the bed, Ginny heard a little gasp. She pushed past Percy to see that George was stirring, his breathing becoming quicker and lighter. His eyelids flickered – once, twice – and opened.

He was lying on his back, facing the ceiling, and so the flat white plaster was the first thing he saw. For a few moments he stared at it uncomprehendingly, but then realisation seemed to wash over him and he screwed his eyes tightly shut. After another few moments he opened them again and turned his head to face his family.

"Evening, George," Ginny said quietly.

George did not reply. His gaze flicked to her, his parents, Bill. He looked like a cornered animal, Ginny realised. It was in the eyes: there was something lost and wild in those eyes.

Ginny's mother had stopped crying. She reached out to run a hand through George's hair. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," she murmured. "I'm sorry we weren't there for you."

George only stared at her.

"How _could_ you, George?" Ron whispered, sounding close to breaking point.

Still, George said nothing. He looked like Fred, so pale and still with empty dead eyes, and Ginny felt a rush of sudden anger because he had _no right_ to twist at their heartstrings like that, not now.

She leaned forward and dropped the crumpled suicide note, which had been clenched in her fist since she had found it, onto the bed. "Care to explain this?"

George reached out to smooth the piece of parchment. His eyes flickered with recognition.

"Say something!" Ginny all but shouted.

"Ginny," her father said warningly.

"No," Ginny said. "No, I won't stop. Not until he answers me."

George still stared at her silently, and something in Ginny snapped. She was shouting, now, and tears were suddenly pouring down her face. Every cruel thing she could think to say was hurled at George, but he did not react. It was as if he had been turned to ice.

"I HATE YOU!" she finished. "You're just selfish – selfish – selfish!" And she stumbled backwards, unable to take those blank, emotionless eyes any longer. Her tears had subsided into choking sobs. Unexpectedly, arms wrapped around her.

"Come on, Ginny," Percy said with surprising gentleness. "Let's get you home."

-W-

George knew what was coming next. His suspicions were confirmed when Bill, Charlie and Ron remained in the room after Percy led Ginny and their parents out, his mother squeezing his hand once before leaving.

Sooner than expected Percy returned. "Harry and Hermione were out there," he reported. "I asked them to take Mum and Dad and Ginny back to the Burrow."

Bill nodded absently. Nobody else said anything.

Ron broke the silence. "Ginny found you, you know," he told George.

The letter. George should have known not to send it.

"She was – really upset," Ron continued. "But still, what she said was bang out of order."

"_Say_ something, George," Percy pleaded.

George found his voice. "Let me go," he said quietly.

Charlie stared at him. "What?"

"You heard me. Please. Just let me go."

Bill snorted. "What, so that you can go out and kill yourself?"

George met his gaze defiantly. He had made his decision – he couldn't stay here anymore, couldn't keep on living without Fred. He wasn't strong enough.

Ron looked so fragile, as if he might shatter into a million tiny pieces (like the shards of a broken mirror or a broken heart) any moment. His voice was thin and strained. "We won't let you go," he said. "I – we've arranged everything with the Healer. You're staying here until you're well again. Dad's going to get your wand from your flat and lock it in his Gringotts vault, and you'll be watched twenty-four seven. There are potions in that cabinet... Dreamless Sleep and Calming Draught and a Cheering Potion."

George had been staring at him in dismay, but at the last two words he flinched. "No Cheering Potions," he said, trying hard to stop his voice from shaking.

"George," Bill began, but he never finished.

"No Cheering Potions," George repeated. "I – I took some in October. The nightmares they gave me... I can't do it. Please. I'll stay here, I'll take everything else, I'll even eat three square meals a day if you want if you just take those potions away."

Ron nodded, and George leaned back against the pillows in relief until he saw Bill's narrowed, shrewd eyes.

"George," he said, "what do you mean, _I'll even eat three square meals a day_?"

"You're very thin," Charlie added.

"Look at your fingers," Percy agreed. He moved to touch George's bony left wrist. George snatched his hand away, but it was too late: they had all seen the web of white scars snaking down his skin.

After that everything exploded into noise and shouting and fierce disappointment. George's brothers were all talking at the tops of their voices, whether at him or at each other he wasn't sure. He curled up tightly, the way Fred had used to, and hid his head in his hands.

A voice broke through the clamour. "Oh, George... don't."

George hadn't realised he was crying, but tears were streaking down his face now. He took a shuddering breath and swiped at his cheeks, brushing them away, before sitting up. He drew his knees up to his chest and looked down. He was wearing white hospital pyjamas, which was odd, because he couldn't remember changing into them.

A guilty silence had fallen. When George dared to look up, he saw that his four brothers were standing awkwardly around his bed, occasionally glancing at him and then looking quickly away again.

"'M sorry," George murmured, speaking to his knees. "I tried so hard, I swear. But I can't do it anymore. Please, please, just let me go. I can't keep doing this. Please."

Bill sighed and reached out to trace the scars on George's thin wrist. George was forcibly reminded of the way Fred had once touched the place where his ear had been: his twin's eyes had been wide, his face white with horror, but his fingers had been so gentle.

"We can't let you go," Bill said, jolting him back to the present. "You know that."

"We just want to know _why_, George," Percy said quietly.

George sobbed, once, before he could help himself. Immediately Bill's arm was around his shoulders but he wrenched himself away, because who would want to touch him once he told them?

"George?"

"I – I hear his voice," he said. "In my head."

"His voice?" Charlie repeated, but his voice was heavy. He understood.

"I c-can't help it!" George was fiddling with the sheets, twisting them around his fingers and then pulling his hands free. "H-he tells to do things. I broke the mirror and he – he said to c-cut my arm with it, and he t-told me not to eat, he said I didn't deserve to and anyway the plan would work better if I didn't, and he told me to drink the poison – he said it was better this way and he _promised_ I could see him again and – and—" He was struggling for breath and for composure.

"George." Ron might have been crying. George didn't dare to look up and check. "George, it isn't—"

"I know!" George burst out. "I know it isn't Fred. Fred's _dead_. And I know he wouldn't tell me to hurt myself, Fred _loved_ me. B-but every time I start doubting him he tells me that he knows best, better than all of you do, better than I do. But none of that matters anyway because when he tells me to do something I listen because – because it's _Fred_."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Percy breathed, sounding rather ill.

A few tears dropped onto the sheet and George realised that he was crying yet again. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry I'm not strong enough but please, I just can't do this any more, I m-miss him so much..." It was strange, because usually he was good at controlling himself, but he _couldn't stop crying_.

"George." Bill put an arm around his shoulders. "George, it's okay."

George shook his head because nothing could be further from the truth, and now he was struggling for breath, stealing air between his sobs, and Bill was rubbing his back but the tears wouldn't stop.

Then someone said, "Here, George, drink this," and he felt cold glass against his lips. He sipped quickly, tasting blackberries on his tongue, before the world slowed down, and quieted, and eventually faded to darkness.

-W-

Bill lowered George down onto the pillows, and for a few moments they were all silent. Ron gave one stifled sob.

"We..." Percy felt as if every bone in his body had been turned to jelly. "We didn't know..."

Charlie swore and slammed his fist into a wall. Bill glanced up at him, his blue eyes like fragments of ice. "In what way does that help?" he asked coldly.

Charlie only glared back at him, but underneath the mask his face was a study in guilt and fear. Percy understood. Charlie had left, turned away when they needed him, and now he was paying the price. But Charlie was lucky, because George had lived, and Percy still had nightmares about Fred's frozen smile and empty eyes and—

He took a deep breath. This was not the time.

Tentatively, Ron approached the bed, brushing his hand through George's hair. "Merlin, George," he breathed. "What did we let you do to yourself?"

Enough, Percy wanted to say. Enough. Because George was so, so thin, with skeletal fingers and hollowed-out cheeks; because there were scars on his wrist and shadows in his eyes and he'd _begged_ them to let him die.

"We can fix this," Bill said firmly. "He'll get better. The potions will help, and there'll be someone watching him all the time. He's not getting out of this place before it's safe."

"But how long will that take?" Percy asked. He was hoping for reassurances, cheerful blandishments, but Bill said nothing.

Ron sobbed again, and Percy glanced over at him. There were tears pooling in his little brother's blue eyes, and he looked close to a complete meltdown.

Immediately Bill was at his side, every inch the solicitous big brother. "Come on," he said gently. "I'll take you home." He led Ron over to the doorway, pausing on the threshold. "Someone needs to stay here with George."

"I will," Charlie said at once. Percy was glad. He wasn't sure how much longer he could bear to remain in this cold, soulless room.

Bill nodded and left, Ron sticking to his side. Percy paused for a moment to look at the thin, frail body curled up under the bedcovers. All the pain and fear and anger in him seemed to be coming to a head, flames growing and licking at his insides.

Someone had done this to them. Someone was to blame for the way they were now: broken and struggling and missing Fred so much it still hurt to think of him. Someone had done this to George, too, George who had always been so happy and full of life. Percy thought suddenly of the scrap of parchment from two weeks ago. A list containing the name Augustus Rookwood.

"Percy?" Charlie said. "What do you want?"

So much, too much. Percy wanted to bring Fred back, to erase the three years he'd spent estranged from his family, to make things whole again. He wanted to save George before it was too late. But then, perhaps he couldn't do any of that.

He raised his head to meet his brother's eyes. "I want revenge."

**A/N: The drama increases... I hoped you enjoy the chapter, and please review! Watch out for the next chapter, in which Charlie sorts things out, Ginny does some research and George gets used to his new life.**

**~Butterfly**


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